


Just how you remember

by fannishliss



Series: Kink List [19]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky thinks in the second person, Captain America: Civil War Trailer, Conditioning, Consent Play, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, The Soldier and the Red Room, Under-negotiated Kink, echoes of hydra trash parties, for my kink list
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He asked you if you remember him. Of course you do: Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America.    You are Bucky Barnes, Steve’s best friend on playground and on battlefield.  His ma’s name was Sarah.  She was a nurse. You helped her take care of him, when he was sick, which was all the time.  They were poor.  He lined his shoes with newspaper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just how you remember

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my kink list, Consent Play. It might be a little dark.

“Your mom’s name was Sarah.  You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”  
  
Why did you say that?  He asked you if you remember him. Of course you do: Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America.  The other man, Steve’s friend, standing farther back from you, suspicious and defensive, is Sam Wilson, pararescue and newly minted Avenger, the Falcon.  Steve Rogers, childhood friend of Bucky Barnes. You are Bucky Barnes, Steve’s best friend on playground and on battlefield.  His ma’s name was Sarah.  She was a nurse. You helped her take care of him, when he was sick, which was all the time.  They were poor.  All the money she earned went to keeping him warm and clothed and fed, nothing left for new shoes, especially not in the summertime.  He lined his shoes with newspaper when they wore through.  One pair of shoes a year, a new pair for the first day of school in September.  He lined his shoes with newspaper.  
  
“Shine my shoes, punk,” you said to him with a smile so much softer than the words.   Steve knew what you meant, always eager for the dare. You loved each other then, as well as you knew how, but you wondered how much of his love was indignation, how much was Steve Rogers spitting in the eye of the world?  He loved Carter too.  You could see it.  But he loved you.  The man you were then.    
  
“They think you blew up the United Nations,” Steve is saying.  
  
“I don’t do that anymore.” Do what, blow things up? You’ve been on the run for over two years.  How many Hydra agents have tracked you down? You don’t want to remember.  How many of those who tried to take you in survived? None. You made sure of it.  You didn’t exactly seek them out.  But if, when, they came after you, you took them down, all the way down.  
  
“I didn’t bomb the United Nations, Steve,” you say.  You let your weariness show on your face.  The metal arm is trapped in a vise.  How does the Winter Soldier’s arm get stuck in a vise? Answer: Bucky Barnes is a fool.  Bucky Barnes remembered Howard Stark, a good man, kind of a wise ass, but smart and trustworthy.  This kid of his, so much older now than Howard was then, has so much more pain in his eyes — betrayals, losses, mistakes, self-doubt you hadn’t counted on. You ran for two years, ahead of Hydra, ahead of Steve and his friend Sam, you ran and ran.  You dug out all the trackers, but the arm’s power source was one of a kind, a dead giveaway.  You thought Howard’s son, perfector of the arc reactor, might help you — in exchange for the power source (one of Hydra’s precious blue vials), maybe he would give you something a little less conspicuous.  He trapped you in the vise and called for reinforcements.  
  
“Well, the people who think you did are coming right now,” Steve is saying, “and they’re not planning on taking you alive.”  
  
“Steve,” Sam Wilson cautions.    
  
You remember the look, the hot longing Bucky Barnes knew how to throw into his eyes.  You put the look in your eyes.    
  
“Stevie,” you breathe, letting Brooklyn flood your voice, “you gotta get me outta here.”  
  
Steve rips the machine apart.  You are free. You run.  Men in heavy tac gear are thundering up the stairs.  Helicopters are hovering outside.    
  
You jump.  You run.  You latch onto the side of a bus, let it bear you away.  You remember how the look in Steve’s eyes met your own, longing for longing.  He wants you like that.    
  
You remember, wanting him.  You remember, loving him.  So long ago.  He wore threadbare clothes and newspapers in his shoes.  He had a little sketchbook in his pocket, and he made sketches of your face when you were sleeping.  You shared his tent because you were best friends.  You shared because it wasn’t proper for him to share with Carter.  You shared his tent for warmth.  You shared because he used to shine your shoes.     
  
Who was the punk? He was the little one, the art student, with the sinful long lashes, the pretty face, the fine bones.  You would have lain down in the street to keep his holey shoes out of the mud. You first learned to use your fists to keep him safe.  You killed for him without batting an eye.  You belonged to him, you were his to use or to send away, till you fell.  Then you were no one, and other hands used you.    
  
Now, two years out, you have some sense of yourself again.  You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore, or at least, you don’t take orders like the Winter Soldier did. You remember, through the haze of the drugs and the wipes and the conditioning, how you believed you were still in the war, they made you think you were doing what was right.  You’ll probably never shake the nightmares, but at least you’ve been able to process some of the guilt.  You’ve seen the kinds of things Hydra does to people.  You’re not even unique anymore, not since Centipede, Tahiti, all the ways Hydra gains control over helpless minds.  You did what Hydra commanded, for decades, but if you hadn’t done it, they would have used someone else.    
  
Now, you’re on the run again, and Steve has gone to war with his own allies, over you.  You think you ought to feel bad, but you don’t.  Steve still wants you.  As long as Steve wants you, as long as he’s willing to fight for you, he is a powerful ally, and he still has some friends.    
  
You go to him by night. For someone on the run, he’s really not very hard to find.  You spent the last two years watching him place his caches, establish his bolt holes, learning from the Widow, the widow you taught.  You wait for him to go to ground exactly where you taught her she should go.  And he turns up, right on schedule.    
  
You wait for Steve in the dark.  You remember how Pierce liked it when you were the predator in the corner, muzzled by fear.  How you sat silent and waited for orders, never speaking; you remember how something wasn’t exactly perfect about Pierce but you obeyed him anyway.  After he died, your memories came back bit by bit, photoboxes with the lights flicked on.  When Pierce was young he looked a little like Steve, enough that you were calmer when your orders came from him.   Pierce rode your compliance to the very top.    
  
The door to Steve’s bolt hole unlocks, Steve slips inside, alone.  Wilson has gone to ground elsewhere, solid strategy.    
  
“Buck,” Steve acknowledges, cautious.    
  
It’s difficult to speak.  The conditioning is heavy to sit, silent, and wait for orders.  You shake it off.  
  
“Stevie,” you say, and it doesn’t sound Russian, you didn’t call him sir, it’s a win.    
  
Steve halts inside the door, and doesn’t come closer.  At least he’s bolted it behind him.  
  
Slowly you force yourself to stand.  Every muscle protests you putting yourself at his level.  He reads to your conditioning as the handler.  You know who he is, but part of you is still the Winter Soldier.  If Steve gives you an order, you know you will not hesitate.    
  
“Come here,” Steve says, relief in his voice.  He holds out his arms, and you step into his embrace.    
  
It feels so good, letting him embrace you.  That’s what no one can possibly understand. Just because they want to rule the world, doesn’t mean they’re idiots.   They don’t just make you give in — they reward you when you comply. The grinding distress of confusion, the sting and stab of resistance — the sweet relief of giving in, the shivering pleasure of doing just as they ask.    
  
You’ll fight Hydra to the last man, but it doesn’t mean you’ve broken your conditioning, just that you got better at fighting it, better at tolerating the stab of refusing to comply.    
  
Steve’s arms feel strong and safe around you.  His neck smells almost like the kid you remember, not quite as sour.  His voice is just the same, rumbling out of a chest twice as broad, “Bucky, I can’t believe I finally found you.”  
  
You don’t say he didn’t find you.  You let him hold you.  
  
He pulls back a little.  “Bucky — you remember?”  he whispers.  He wants you.  
  
So many men have had you since then, since the days you took care of him in that Brooklyn flat and the nights you held him close in a tent one over from Carter’s.  You were trained to extract information, just like they trained the widows.  (You helped train the widows.)   You were given as a reward.  You were given to be punished.  You were given your reward.  You were put on your knees, put on your hands and knees, put against a wall, hung from the ceiling, strapped to a cross, thrown to the floor, beaten, used.  Resistance was pain, compliance was its own sweet oblivion.    
  
“I remember,” you say, and he slowly leans in.  
  
“Tell me it’s okay,” he says, intent on you.  
  
“It’s okay,” you say, and pleasure runs up and down your spine.    You remember, how you held him in the cold.  You remember, when he was little he was cold, when he was big he was warm, but you always held him.  
  
Longing is easy for a widow to learn.  She yearns for so much — freedom, success, reward, enough food to fill a hollow belly.  Longing is the first thing a widow learns to put on her face.  You helped put that look there for them.   You want freedom, safety, you want to stop running.  You want a friend to hold you. You remember Steve Rogers on the day his mother died, promising to be there for him till the end of the line.  You do remember that.  You want to be there, at the end of the line.  You put all your longing into your eyes and Steve sees it there.  
  
He kisses you, and you comply.  It feels so good.    
  
He bears you down to the bed.  Your limbs are loose and heavy, languid with the luxury of being what he needs.  Your breathing is slow and deep and everything feels so good as he wants you and you let him have you.    
  
“Relax,” he whispers, and you sink deeper.  The ecstasy surges through your veins as he slicks you open and you relax, so good for him.    
  
He slips inside.  It feels so good.  Not many of your handlers ever bothered to be gentle; your compliance was its own reward.  But Steve is gentle, even as he takes you harder.  He feels so right inside you: he was the first who ever had you that way.  They could never take that — he had always been there first.    
  
His breathing is getting ragged.  You stare up into his eyes.  You can see his desire so plainly.  He’s been hurting for you, so long.  His pain stabs you a little.  
  
“Steve,” you gasp.  
  
“Bucky,” he commands.  
  
You remember being Bucky, so long ago.  You are Bucky.  
  
“Stevie, god, I love you,” you cry.  
  
He gets a hand around you and he’s hitting that spot inside you again and again.  
  
“Stevie, I’m so close,” you gasp.    
  
“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says, fucking you.  “Come for me, Bucky, I want you to feel it — “  
  
White hot ecstasy rushes through your brain, seizing your body, and pouring out of you like fire.  Oblivion, it’s pure sweet oblivion, being held down and wrapped in the ardor of getting it right, being so good.  
  
You come back to your senses and he’s wiping you down with a wet washcloth, tenderly wiping the tears from your face and the sweat from your body, the ejaculate cooling here and there.  
  
“You read the file,” you say, tentative.  It’s easier, after full compliance, just for a while, to question.    
  
“I did,” he says, infinite compassion and sorrow in his eyes.  
  
“I can’t say,” you whisper, and stop;  “no,” you slowly mouth.  
  
“I didn’t ask,” he says, and his eyes on you are exactly the same as they always were.    
  
“Punk,” you say, and it feels like laughter, this close to compliance.  Laughter, sobbing, who are you to say.  
  
He strokes your face, and kisses you softly.  “Go to sleep, Buck, you’re worn out.”  
  
So you sleep, secure.  He’ll wake you soon enough.  

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> I am looking for prompts at this time, especially to give as gifts to my readers as Palentines. :D
> 
> PS, I'm just making a guess that the thing they think he "did" is blow up the UN. There is a flash of some kind of council chamber blowing up, so I'm going with that.


End file.
